Five was not looking happy. He was lying back too far and tugging at the finish. To him the boat seemed heavier than usual, for he was just beginning to realise the difference between seconding the efforts of Hughie Marrable and those of Mr. Duncombe. Still, he was plugging gamely. Four, a painstaking person, was encouraging himself in a fashion entirely his own. After every stroke, as he sat up and swung forward, he gasped out some little _sotto voce_ remark to himself, such as, "Oh, well _rowed_, Four!--Stick to it, Four!--Use your _legs_, old man!--That's better!--That's a _beauty_!--Oh, well _rowed_, Four!" And so on. Where he got the necessary breath for these exercises nobody knew; but some folk possess these little peculiarities, and row none the worse for them. Bow was another instance. He was a chirpy but eccentric individual, and used to sing to himself some little ditty of the moment--or possibly a hymn--all through a race, beginning with the first stroke and ending exactly, if possible, with the last. He had been known, when stroking a boat, to quicken up to a perfectly incredible rate simply because he feared that the song would end before he completed the course, a contingency which he regarded as unlucky in the extreme. On the other hand, he would become quite depressed if he had to stop in the middle of a verse, and he was quite capable of rowing _rallentando_ if he desired to synchronise his two conclusions. But few people have the time or inclination for these diversions while oscillating upon a sixteen-inch slide, and the rest of the crew were swinging at and plugging in grim silence. The two boats swept into the roaring medley of Ditton Corner. They flashed past the row of piles and tethered punts amid a hurricane of shouts and waving handkerchiefs. Hughie, wrongfully exercising his privilege as Stroke, allowed his eyes to slide to the right for a moment. He had a fleeting glimpse of the crimson and excited countenance of Miss Gaymer, as some man held her aloft in the crowd. Then the boat gave a slight lurch, and Joey was swallowed up again. Hughie felt guiltily responsible for the lurch, and recalling his gaze into the proper channel--straight over the coxswain's right shoulder--swung out again long and steadily. "Are we straight yet?" he gasped to Dishy. "Yes--just." "Tell 'em to reach out a bit." Mr. Watson complied, in tones that rose high above the tumult on the bank and penetrated even into the harmonious soul of Bow, who was grappling with a difficult cadenza at the moment. "Six good ones!" said Hughie, next time his face swung up towards the coxswain's. "Now, you men, six good ones!" echoed Dishy. "_One! Two!_ Five, you're late! _Three! Four! Five!_ Bow, get hold of it! _Six!_ Oh, well rowed!" There was a delighted roar from the bank. The Benedictine crew were together again after the unsteadiness round Ditton. "How far?" signalled Hughie's lips.